


Used To It

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [8]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bad things happen but good things do too, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Panic Attacks, Protective JT Tarmel, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: For the Bad Things Happen square: Panic AttacksHe called for back-up. Even waited for it this time. But he still ends up rushing through the container storage yard alone. They don't have time for anything else.Malcolm is Quantico trained and has a background in the martial arts. He's more than capable of defending himself in an equal fight.Problem is, not all fights are equal.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741687
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	Used To It

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This started out as a mostly Bad Things Happen entry, but then the episode this week aired and Malcolm clearly just wants to be friends with JT, so it turned into a bit of a bromance, too. You can blame Malcolm's subconscious for that, because the two of them as friends is just too damn cute to pass up.

He called for back-up. Even waited for it this time. But he still ends up rushing through the container storage yard alone. They don't have time for anything else.

Malcolm is Quantico trained and has a background in the martial arts. He's more than capable of defending himself in an equal fight.

Problem is, not all fights are equal.

~~~

It's coming on midnight when Malcolm discovers that a shipping container full of women is due to be transported from the country within the hour. He calls it in to Gil as he makes his way to the harbour, prepared to scout the site as soon as he arrives, but Gil's orders leave no room for interpretation.

"Bright. Wait for back-up," Gil says firmly. "I'll be there in ten. JT and Powell won't be far behind."

Gil's been trying to drill it into his brain for the last year or so — ever since he started to work with the team, really. And as much as Malcolm wants to rush in and start looking for those girls, he knows that, this time, he can't. The organization they stumbled upon during the course of their investigation is expansive, well-funded, and if the rumours are true, exceedingly well-armed.

So when the cab drops him off a block away (to keep from alerting anyone to his presence via the hum of an engine), he silently makes his way by foot to the entrance of the yard, keeping firmly ensconced in the shadows as he moves. Then he tucks himself away, waiting anxiously at the entrance for the team to arrive.

The night is deadly silent, not something he's used to with living in the middle of the city that never sleeps, but the property here is large enough that the sounds of New York's eight million residents seem to dissolve into the ether before they have a chance to descend on the yard.

He doesn't particularly care for it.

Fortunately, he doesn't need to wait long. It's maybe two minutes before Gil pulls into the parking lot, driving right up to the entrance before cutting the engine. Malcolm slips from the shadows as he watches Gil look around for him, stepping out slowly so as to not spook the man, who already has his gun drawn, ready for the trouble they're sure to face.

Gil lowers the weapon as Malcolm nears, looking somewhat surprised that he actually waited for back-up for a change. Which is entirely unfair, Malcolm thinks to himself as he approaches, keeping a wary eye on the darkness around them. It's not as if he _recklessly_ endangers his life. He's merely capable of weighing the odds of success when approaching a situation alone and immediately, versus waiting for a team for support, and then acts accordingly.

And this, here, tonight...the odds are too high that he would've failed on his own and those women would be shipped into the night, never to be heard from again. Waiting for the team vastly increases the chances of finding them in time. And so he waited.

"Swat is mobilizing but is still fifteen minutes out." There's a sense of urgency, recognizable even in Gil's hushed tones. Malcolm knows that Gil will move heaven and earth to find those girls. He also knows they won't be waiting for swat. Gil does, however, pull out his phone to check for an update from JT or Dani, the glow of his screen lighting up the night around them in eerie shades of blue.

The update is a moot point as the quiet hum of an SUV floats to them just before the vehicle pulls into the lot. In seconds, JT and Dani are standing next to Malcolm and Gil, hands already on their weapons, though they remain firmly in their holsters.

"We can't wait for SWAT," Gil says, confirming Malcolm's suspicions as they make a loose huddle next to his car. "Those women might not have that long."

Dani and JT both nod, grim expressions sitting heavily on their faces. They all understand the urgency — and risk — of what they're about to do.

Gil takes a quick look over Malcolm and for a tense moment, Malcolm thinks that Gil is going to bench him, order him to wait by the car. Instead, he turns to Dani and asks, "You have another vest?"

Gil, Dani, and JT are already sporting ballistic vests. Malcolm, in his typical three-piece, is the only one without the additional protection, and Gil is quite clearly not willing to take that risk. In lieu of an answer, Dani jogs to the trunk and pulls out another vest, closing the door as quietly as possible before she jogs back and hands it off to Malcolm with a small smile.

Malcolm straps it on as they move, letting the weight settle over him like a blanket, providing an extra level of protection beyond his reliance on the team as he remains perpetually unarmed. He knows that there's bound to be security throughout the storage yard, and not the kind of rent-a-cop that's hired from a security services firm. The steady weight of the vest is a comfort that he didn't even know he needed.

They're in the yard proper in less than two minutes, but it's enough time to realize they're woefully unequipped to cover the entire space. The lot spans at least a couple miles of shoreline, but is deeper than Malcolm had been expecting. Beyond that, the entire space is a maze of shipping containers, stacked two, three, even four high in tidy little rows. With thousands of containers spread over miles of land, finding the right container is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

He can tell by the way Gil's eyebrows furrow and his lips pull into a tight line as he surveys the space that he's realized the same thing. He can also tell — this time by the way Gil tilts his head and huffs out a frustrated breath — that he's about to give an order he's unhappy about.

"JT, you and Bright take the right side of the yard." Gil's voice is just above a whisper, his eyes never ceasing to scan the area around (and above) them for approaching threats as he speaks. Malcolm knows just how much Gil hates sending the team into dangerous situations, especially when he can't be there to have their backs, and knows the decision is already weighing on him. "Powell and I will go left. Stay together. Call if you find the storage container or any sign of our smugglers."

"Sure thing, boss," JT agrees with a curt nod, always ready to take his orders and run with them. He finds Malcolm's gaze and gives a quick jerk of his head, leading Malcolm off to the right without another word. Malcolm casts a quick glance to Gil and Dani, wishing them a silent good luck and receiving the same in return, and then he's off, following JT's hulking form as he heads down the next set of makeshift aisles.

They manage to make it up one aisle of containers and down the next before the fruitlessness of their task begins to weigh down on Malcolm.

There's not enough time. Not if they stay together.

"We need to split up," Malcolm says quietly as JT sweeps the corner with his gun before leading them around the last container in the line. JT arches an eyebrow at him, hesitance clear in every aspect of his bearing, but beneath it all, Malcolm can tell that JT knows he's right. "Look, we can cover more ground if we take separate aisles. We can stay close, in case one of us runs into trouble, but if we don't do this now, those women will be gone forever."

They both know the odds of finding them alive dwindle down to practically nothing once the shipping container is loaded and taken to sea. The human trafficking rings, unfortunately, have long since mastered their craft, turning their venture into an exact science. It's little more than pure luck that Malcolm stumbled across this lead in the first place, and he's not willing to risk losing them now, just for a greater degree of safety.

"Don't go far," JT agrees reluctantly, fixing Malcolm with a stern look that says he expects Malcolm to follow this one order. "I want you within shouting distance at all times. And you call me if you find something"

"Got it." Malcolm doesn't wait around for JT to change his mind. He leaves the next line for JT to clear and runs down a little further, taking another aisle to himself.

The silence of the night, off-putting as it was while he was waiting for the team, is nothing but a blessing now. As he walks along the packed dirt, the quiet tap of his shoes on the ground the only sound to break the stillness, he's able to listen for sounds of life in every container he passes. If his sources are right, there are more than thirty women slated to be transported, and he suspects that, despite the threats to stay quiet that he's sure were leveled at them, at least _some_ noise will be audible if he gets close enough.

The end of the aisle he's in cuts off with a perpendicular container blocking his exit, causing the path to veer to the left, rather than meeting up with the main aisle that he and JT had been negotiating. It's not ideal, but he doesn't have time to turn back, and the containers still need to be checked, so he continues on, taking quiet steps as he turns the corner.

As he stalks along the pathway, listening for sounds of life around him, he pulls out his phone and begins to type a text to JT, letting him know which direction he's heading, but a flash of movement ahead catches his eye and Malcolm freezes in place, quickly pressing the screen of his phone against his vest.

The silhouette of a man turns a corner maybe a few dozen feet away, and Malcolm's feet are carrying him closer before his mind even catches up with his body. He tucks his phone away, unwilling to let the light give away his location as he follows after the person, praying they'll lead him to the right container.

When he turns the corner, though, he finds the area closed off and empty. The space is lined by three shipping containers, all at right angles, that make a sort of cul-de-sac. Even though a portion of the area is concealed in deep shadows, Malcolm can _feel_ that there's no one there, and confusion and suspicion war for supremacy inside of him. He can't help but question whether or not he truly saw what he thinks he saw, or if his mind is playing tricks on him.

It wouldn't be the first time.

He moves cautiously, edging along the container to his right and keeping a hand on the cool metal as he goes, determined to check for any hidden doorways or ladders in the makeshift quad. He's only a few steps in, though, when he hears the shuffle of feet and a rustle of clothing behind him.

He spins around, bracing himself for a fight, but he's not quite quick enough. A meaty fist connects hard with the side of his head, making his world tilt dangerously as he stumbles back, gripping his pounding head with one hand and scrambling for purchase on the wall beside him with the other. There's a moment of near primal fear when he thinks there are two very, very large men approaching him, but his vision quickly corrects, melding the pair of goons into one very angry looking man.

It's only moderately better, but he knows he stands a far better chance against one low-life than he does against two, and he prepares himself for the oncoming fight. He pushes away from the wall, trying to shake the cotton that's filling his head from the hit he already took, but no sooner does he find his feet than he's forced off them again.

He drops to the ground as another punch sails towards his face, narrowly missing another blow that he's sure would have knocked him out cold. Before the man has a chance to react to his maneuver, Malcolm launches to his feet, using his momentum to ram the heel of his hand into the man's nose with as much force as he can muster. He _feels_ the crack reverberate through his hand more than hears it, and yanks his hand back as the warm gush of blood spills over his skin. The man staggers back, bringing both hands to his face as he yelps, surprise and pain nearly palpable in his cry.

Malcolm intends to take advantage of the man's distraction to run, to call for JT like he promised he would, but just a little too late, he registers the sound of footsteps behind him.

He isn't given the opportunity to spin around and fend off his attacker this time.

Before he has a chance to call for back-up, a plastic bag is pulled down over his head, the night becoming suddenly darker and infinitely more terrifying. The man behind him jerks the bag tight around his throat — tight enough that his airflow is cut off as he's tugged back against a strong body. The tension loosens slightly when the man releases one hand from his crushing grip on the bag to wrap an arm around Malcolm's chest, pinning him in place, but it's all for nothing. The extra slack around his neck allows his throat to expand, desperately searching for a breath, but his heaving gasp merely sucks the plastic into his mouth, blocking the air he so desperately needs. The bag strains and pulls tight as it curves past his lips, the suction of his lungs dragging the plastic in until it tickles his tongue and pulls completely taut, but not a single molecule of air passes into his straining lungs.

Malcolm begins to buck and thrash immediately, his latent panic bursting to life in the span of a wildly racing heartbeat. Memories of a sickly-sweet cloth held over his face, of being locked up in that tiny closet with the walls closing in, of the girl in the box reaching out her decomposing and dripping hands to wrap around his throat...they flood his mind in a raging torrent of visions that threaten to drown him.

He can't think straight, can't act logically to implement a coordinated attack on his assailant. Instead, his arms and legs merely jerk uncontrollably, flailing in all directions as a pure and unadulterated terror abruptly filters through every cell in his body. The deafening roar of his heartbeat in his ears eclipses the rustling of the plastic until all he can hear — until all he _knows_ — is the fear inside of him, locked away from the outside world entirely. Locked in his head as all of his senses freeze.

His whole existence narrows down to this single moment in time; his lungs heave and burn, his heart tries to punch through his rib cage, and the fear consumes him so fully, so _quickly_ , that he has no doubt that this is the end.

And he doesn't want to die.

His lungs gasp for air, faster and faster, but it only sucks the bag in and out of his mouth, and without the oxygen that his body and brain need so desperately, everything begins to fade. His vision tunnels, the hint of light that was making it through the translucent bag becoming dimmer by the second as his body begins to slow, his movements becoming sluggish and weighted.

In the back of his mind, in the tiny area not consumed by panic, he registers the sound of shouting, of a gunshot. He's too lost in his head to make sense of the commotion, but the body that was holding him up suddenly disappears from behind him and Malcolm collapses to the ground like his strings have been cut.

The bag holds fast over his head, but no longer pulls tight around his throat, finally allowing air to circulate beneath the plastic. His next heaving breath is such an unexpected success that he winds up choking on the air as it floods his starving lungs. He coughs and hacks as his body battles to survive, but his mind is only half in the present, only half aware of what's happening. The other half is cycling viciously through his past. He's trapped in the airtight book restoration room, trapped in a turnstile as his ribs are crushed and his lungs compacted so badly that he can't suck in a breath, and always, _always_ , that damp cloth is pressed over his face as his father pins his arms to his sides.

He doesn't even notice when the bag disappears. A firm hand lands on his bicep and it's too much to handle and he needs to get away, needs to get away, needs to get away…

"Bright."

Kicking out, Malcolm's foot makes contact with something fleshy, loosening the hold on his arm enough that he can scramble away. He pulls himself backwards as fast as his body will allow, scampering back until his head and shoulders abruptly slam into something metal, something that keeps him from moving any farther, that halts his progress so swiftly that a near hysteric cry breaks from his lips.

"Bright!"

A flash of recognition tempers the panic that's raging inside of him, but his breath is still coming too fast, a choppy panting that renews the tunnel vision as his body screams at him to _fucking breathe already_ , but he needs to get free, to get away from Martin, from John, from the girl. A keening cry fills the air around him but he only realises it's coming from him when two warm, gentle hands cup his face, halting his thrashing body almost immediately.

"Bright. It's JT. Listen to my voice. You're safe now."

The voice helps to guide him back, slowly, away from the nightmares. The raucous noise in his head dies away a little at a time, and as his mind and vision begin to clear, he discovers JT in front of him, worried eyes locked onto his.

And the fight drops out of him immediately.

His body goes limp, startling JT badly enough that he grabs hard onto Malcolm's shoulders holding him firmly and shaking him slightly as he yells, "Bright? Bright?!"

Malcolm can't speak, not yet, but he manages to bring a trembling hand up to grab hold of JT's arm, giving a light squeeze, an assurance that he's alright. Or, at the very least, will be. The worry stays etched on JT's face, but the urgency starts to fade.

"Hang on, man," JT says, easing his grip as he pulls out his radio and provides their location, whether to dispatch or to Gil, Malcolm isn't sure. But then he hears the deep tones of Gil's voice in response and relaxes a little more. Even still, his mind is too busy playing catch up on something that he heard a moment ago to pick up on the words that are exchanged.

Amidst all of the nightmares that were plaguing his mind, amidst the panic and the terror of nearly suffocating, he'd heard a woman's scream. He _knows_ he did.

He uses the metal wall of the shipping container behind him to lever himself up, his limbs shaking dangerously as he tries to push to his feet. His heart is still running full tilt, his lungs still struggling to remember their usual pattern of _in_ and _out_ , but his mind is clear enough to remember that they don't have time to waste. Gil and Dani would've started running their direction at the sound of a gunshot, but so would the well-armed human traffickers.

They need to move. Now.

"They're here." His voice is as shaky as his body, but JT doesn't question Malcolm's statement or his resolve, merely shores him up with a steadying hand wrapped around his bicep as they make their way around the containers forming the walls of the makeshift square.

Though JT keeps one hand on Malcolm, steadying him as he walks and regains his equilibrium, his other hand keeps a steady grip on his gun. Malcolm realizes that JT's leaving it to Malcolm to find the girls while JT himself maintains a watchful eye on their surroundings. Protecting them.

He spares half a thought to how well they've learned to work together, but then he hears something in the container that's propping him up and he pauses to press an ear to the metal. Even though they're clearly trying to keep quiet, the ambient noise of that many people in one place is audible through the metal.

Following the wall to what Malcolm had originally thought was a corner where the edge of the container abutted the container sitting at a right angle next to it, Malcolm discovers there's enough room to walk between the two shipping crates. The narrow pathway had merely been hidden in the shadows.

They duck through to find the doors of the container chained and padlocked and he looks to JT, giving a nod that they've found the right place, but just as he's reaching out for the lock, his hand still trembling from the adrenaline that's yet to fade from his system, rapid gunfire splits the night.

The first shot just barely misses Malcolm's outstretched hand and he jerks it back with a hiss, his adrenaline spiking dangerously once again. His overtaxed mind doesn't process what's happening nearly as fast as JT's, and he suddenly finds himself struggling to stay upright as JT grabs hold of the front of his vest and yanks him back through the walkway, sheltering them from the gunfire.

Malcolm doesn't quite make it around the corner before it feels like a hammer slams against his back, but his groan is lost in the gunfire and JT is pulling him hard enough that he stumbles into the detective, only kept upright as JT adjusts his hold and presses him up against the storage container.

"You good?" JT shouts, his eyes scanning the area around them, searching for more shooters. His hand is still pressed to the middle of Malcolm's vest, keeping him upright or keeping him back, Malcolm isn't sure.

He sucks in a breath and takes a second to assess himself for damage. Oddly, the shootout seems to have calmed his nerves a little, replacing his lingering panic with a burning determination. He can feel his face swelling slightly from the sucker punch that Mr. Large & Angry landed, but he's missing the distinct confusion that always accompanies a concussion. And while he knows he was hit when the shots started flying, he's pretty sure his vest performed admirably and kept him in one piece.

Even if it stings like a bitch.

It's not the first time he's been shot in the vest, but it doesn't feel any better now than it did back in the FBI. "I'm fine, but we can't stay here!" Malcolm shouts over the gunfire, breathless and wincing at the blooming ache in his back.

The problem is, there aren't many options on the table. All he can do while they're pinned in place to avoid getting shot is hope: hope that the shipping container isn't taking much gunfire, hope the people firing at them remember that stray bullets equal dead women, hope that the threat of losing their precious merchandise will keep them from firing at the container as they try to take him and JT out.

Waiting and hoping have never been his style, though, and he's not willing to bet innocent lives on the ability of human traffickers to make humane decisions

He needs to divert their fire. Needs to give them something else to shoot at.

He takes a step forward, ready to dart back through the opening and make a break for _anywhere_ that's far away from the container full of kidnapped women. That plan falls apart, though, when Gil steps in to block his way, pushing him back against the solid wall behind him, looking entirely immovable.

He doesn't even know when Gil arrived.

"Not gonna happen, kid," Gil warns.

A quick glance around the little quad shows Dani at the edge of the containers, keeping an eye on their surroundings, gun drawn and attention entirely focused on the task at hand. They obviously know they're under fire (shots are still ringing out intermittently), but he realizes that Gil and Dani probably don't know about the hostages.

"The women are in here," Malcolm explains urgently, gesturing to the shipping container that's most definitely taking fire.

"And SWAT is on site," Gil returns just as intently.

Sure enough, as the words are falling from Gil's lips, four members of a tactical team round the corner, moving as one, waved in by Dani. Malcolm realizes that the SWAT teams must've approached from multiple angles when a steep surge of gunfire explodes on the other side of the walkway, accompanied by forceful calls to surrender, and suddenly he understands why Gil was keeping him back. The team members on their side of the storage container begin filing through the small walkway, heading into the fray to put an end to the night.

It's over fast. Unexpectedly so. The gunfire dies down, the suspects (more than they'd been expecting) are apprehended, and bolt cutters are rushed over from the tactical command center. Malcolm and the team stand back as the chain is broken and the doors to the container fly open, revealing thirty three women, huddled at the far end of the container, fear etched in every line on their tear-stained faces.

But as they're led out by the SWAT team, Malcolm notices that none of them appear grievously injured (physically, at least).

Which, as far as Malcolm is concerned, makes tonight a good night.

"Uh, Bright?" Dani's voice comes from behind him as they watch the last of the women clear the container, ready to be led to the waiting ambulances and back to homes that they never thought they'd see again.

"Yeah," Malcolm asks, his eyes trained on the final woman as she steps out of the container. She's in her twenties, blonde and fit, but something more than a passing physical resemblance reminds him of Ainsley. He's just realizing it's the slightly lost look in her eyes when Dani's question tears his attention away from the girl.

"Did you get shot?"

"I'm fine. The vest caught it," Malcolm says absently with a shrug, but then immediately winces at the movement. It's tender, to be sure, but he's certainly dealt with worse. And frankly, if his is the only injury sustained in the course of the evening (not counting the traffickers, of course) then he's definitely counting the night a win.

Before he's even answered, though, Gil's eyes dart to him, searching for injuries. So do JT's.

Malcolm strains his neck to look over his shoulder as Dani plucks a crumpled bullet from the back of his vest, just above his left shoulder blade. He knows from experience that he'll have one hell of a bruise come morning, but he also knows that, grand scheme, it's really not important.

"He was nearly suffocated, too," JT oh-so-helpfully supplies. Malcolm shoots the detective a betrayed look, but the honest concern that's creasing JT's face is enough to ease the sting of being tattled on.

"For the love of—" Gil cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and blowing out a sharp breath. "Why didn't you say something?"

Dani flags down a nearby paramedic as Gil speaks, and JT just stares at him, his expression vacillating between worry, exasperation, and maybe even a reluctant respect.

It settles on exasperation in the end.

And Malcolm is surprisingly okay with that.

He gets the all clear from the paramedic in short order, and less than a half hour later, he's left sitting on the back of an ambulance, buttoning up his shirt as JT shuffles over. JT's hands are slung low in his pockets and his features take on an uncomfortable cast that suggests he's about to initiate a conversation he doesn't particularly care to have.

"You good, man?" JT asks when he gets within a few feet.

"I am. Thank you," Malcolm says, but when JT merely gives a half-hearted shrug, Malcolm repeats it with a great deal more sincerity. "No, really. Thank you, JT. You saved my life. Twice."

JT scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and glances away, clearly mulling something over before he looks back and fixes Malcolm with a glare. "Just don't make a habit of needing saving."

"Understood," Malcolm smirks.

Just when he thinks JT is about to walk away, however, the detective visibly firms his resolve and Malcolm braces himself for whatever bomb JT is about to drop. Judging by the man's pursed lips and the tight pull around his eyes, Malcolm is not going to like it at all.

"Look. Uh. When I pulled that bag off of your head, before you really came back to yourself, you sort of said some things," JT says, his voice low enough to ensure it doesn't carry anywhere beyond the two of them.

Malcolm's blood turns to ice, his mind kicking into high gear, thinking back to what he might have said, what he might have revealed, but his memories are hazy and tinged with panic and he has no idea what may have come out of his mouth. If he said something about Nicholas Endicott…

JT reaches out tentatively, giving Malcolm ample time to stop him from wrapping a hand over his shoulder. When Malcolm makes no objection, JT gives a light squeeze and says, "About your dad."

Relief courses through Malcolm's veins.

"I, uh, I didn't know. I mean, you said he drugged you once, but I didn't think—" JT doesn't seem to know what to say, and Malcolm can understand that completely. While he's been more open with the team than anyone else about what happened when he was a kid, he hasn't exactly spoken openly about his memories of Martin chloroforming him. "Look. I just wanted to tell you that, if you ever need to talk, I'm here." While JT is clearly uncomfortable, Malcolm can tell that he's also completely sincere in his offer. He's still processing that when JT adds, "That, and your dad is a dick."

A chuckle escapes from deep within Malcolm at the words — so true and yet such an understatement. JT fights back a grin at the sound, but Malcolm can tell he's pleased about lightening Malcolm's load, even if it's just for a moment.

"That he is," Malcolm agrees with a smile. "And thanks."

JT offers a half smile and guides Malcolm to his feet, leading him towards their cars. "If you're done just sitting around while the rest of us work, there's a shit ton of paperwork to fill out. Gil and Dani have already left for the precinct to get a head start on it."

After the excitement of the night, Malcolm is more than happy to wind down with a little paperwork. He already knows sleep is out of the question for the night, too many old ghosts having been summoned to allow for anything resembling a restful slumber. And he's not exactly keen to go home to his empty loft just yet.

But when JT stops at a bodega and comes out with two extra large coffees and a pack of licorice, Malcolm realizes that he may not have to worry about being alone quite so soon.

This whole friendship thing is still new to him, but he thinks he could get used to it.


End file.
